The Weight of Despair and the Spirit of Resistance
*deep breaths*
I want to write that essay. The one that makes you stop in your tracks because of its poignant ability to capture the depth of every emotion or thought of every reader. The one that can’t help but be shared thousands of times because it feels like the warm embrace and shoulder to cry on that you’ve been searching for. The one that makes you feel like things will eventually be ‘okay,’ but it’s okay that they aren’t right now.
I don’t know if this will be that essay, but I hope whoever reads this receives exactly what they need.
I spent most of today ignoring my phone. I refused to give the inauguration of a fascist dictator the time of day—especially on Martin Luther King, Jr. day. I allowed myself to live in glorious bliss and immense Black pride with my daughters. We read excerpts from The Spirit of Justice by Jemar Tisby about MLK and we printed out coloring pages from Danielle Coke’s Freedom School subscription, which were about MLK this month. My oldest daughter has one of the newest American Girl Dolls, Melody, who is from the Civil Rights Era, and she decided to make her a protest sign from the March on Washington. “End Jim Crow Now!” was the message she chose for the sign. The doll is still holding the sign as I type this—complete with a popsicle stick and string so it doesn’t fall. Of course, my youngest needed to make one for her doll, too. She has Claudie, an American Girl Doll from the 1920s Harlem Renaissance. Though Claudie was not from Dr. King’s era, her story touches on the racism of that, time, too. Let’s not forget that Jim Crow wasn’t just a few decades, but rather, one hundred years.
My daughters are obsessed with learning about Black History—much like I was as a kid. My love for our history began with my Addy doll, (an American Girl doll from the Civil War era), and never waned. I’ve always felt so much pride in being Black. Our resilience and resistance is unmatched. Our beauty, radiant. Our strength, boundless. Our culture, timeless. From the way we say our hips to the cadence of our speech to our determination to see liberation for all God’s children, we are just special. I’m proud that my daughters share this love for our heritage.
This is one of the reasons they don’t want to go to public school. (We homeschool.) Our history is all but ignored and erased from the public school curriculum. And with the inauguration of our newest president, I don’t doubt that steps will be taken to completely erase our existence from history curriculum, among other things. The first executive order was a complete ban on DEI across all federal government agencies, so we can all see where this is going. But, you don’t need me to tell you what you probably already know. The headlines are hard to ignore, no matter how hard you try, and honestly, we have to pay attention right now, even if we don’t want to. As much as I’m a firm believer in unplugging and protecting your peace, especially on days like today, we are going to need to be informed to stay woke in this new world we’ve just entered. We cannot afford ignorance, but we cannot allow hatred to consume us.
It’s the next day. I am hardly ever able to finish an essay in one day. Remember how I said that I homeschool? Yeah—that means the kids consume most of my life and sneaking away to write, create, think, produce, play, or just be is a freaking miracle. However, much like I stated on Threads and Instagram, we must create. Especially now. Art will be our antidote, our rebellion, our revenge, and what saves our sanity these next four years and beyond. We need to lean on art. We need to use it to send messages in the most discreet, yet loud manner. We need it to escape from the devastation bigotry, and hatred all around us. We need it to be a source of joy our soul will long for. And I firmly believe there is no limit to just how much art we need. There is no ceiling, here. There is no finite table. There is room for you and there is room for me.
I spent the days leading up to the inauguration wondering what I would feel moved to write afterward. Honestly, I’m fighting an internal war of hopelessness and rage-filled determination. One minute, I tell myself that I will use these next four years to step up my liberation work, especially for Black women. I feel a strong urge toward resistance from all things “the system” and I want to write, create, and provide ways for those interested to unite in our resistance. The next minute, I see another headline, and I’m hit with the ultimate gut punch of defeat and despair. How is it possible to fight for liberation now? Was it ever possible? Have we been fooling ourselves since our ancestors have been resisting? Where we have landed as a nation is not by happenstance—white supremacy has been working overtime to return to a place of unchallengeable power, and it has succeeded. The Nazi salute was on stage during the inauguration. We have entered into a 21st-century Gilded Age, fueled by oligarchy. How can one feel hopeful when this is our reality?
I wanted this essay to provide some magical, miraculous hope for those feeling just as crushed as I am. But, I don’t have those magical words. I don’t think there is a way to fabricate feelings of hope right now. I do know that we must stay vigilant because ignorance is how hatred wins. I also believe that our ancestors experienced more moments of despondency than optimism when they were fighting for their freedom. I try to remind myself that generations of my ancestors never saw freedom—they were born enslaved and died enslaved. The ability to even write these words in an attempt to continue a fight for liberation that feels futile is more than many of my ancestors could have ever imagined. It is their spirit that I carry with me, lean on, and use to fuel this fight when I feel like I cannot go on any longer. I hope you can lean into that same spirit, too.
We will get through this. It won’t be easy, but somehow, we will get through this.
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